


The Aftermath

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, M/M, Past Drug Use, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Greg is there for Sherlock. Contains spoilers for The Six Thatchers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything associated.
> 
> The first episode of this season was something of a rollercoaster ride. I confess that I was not particularly enamoured with Mary, and nor am I a big fan of John. There, I've said it. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd, so all errors are mine and mine alone. If anything jumps out at you, feel free to let me know. Feedback rocks :)

The shrill ring of his mobile shattered the silence of Greg’s flat, distracting his attention from the TV he was attentively not watching. 

“Lestrade,” he answered, voice rough with disuse.

“Sherlock left my office half an hour ago,” came the urbane voice of Mycroft Holmes. “His hands were shaking and his left eye twitching.”

Greg’s head, swimming as it was after the events at the aquarium, latched onto what Mycroft was saying; those particular tells were harbingers that Sherlock’s former drug habit was about to rear its ugly head. Greg had never liked Mary; something about her had set off his well-honed ‘danger!danger!’ alarm the moment they had met, and that had been vindicated when she shot Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, adored the woman and Greg had been expecting that her death would send him into a tailspin. “What do you need me to do?”

“He is moving in the direction of John McDonnell’s establishment.” Mycroft’s tone betrayed his feelings about his brother’s movements in a way that he would never put into words, and Greg agreed wholeheartedly; McDonnell was a bastard of the first order, long the kingpin of the drug scene in London, but the force had never been able to make anything stick on the slippery git. 

“Do you want me to intercept him?” Greg asked his friend, mind furiously trying to calculate how much time it would take him to get to McDonnell’s.

“No, there is no time. However, I suspect that Sherlock will retreat to the safety of Baker Street before he attempts to self-medicate.”

“Right, yeah,” Greg said, trying to think through the thick fog that had settled over him since the evening’s dramatic events. It was rare that Sherlock took drugs in the presence of other people, once explaining to Greg that he used substances to escape his mind, and that being surrounded by people to deduce, however inert they were, was counterproductive. “What do you want me to do?”

“He is more likely to tolerate your presence than mine,” Mycroft said, and it was a testament to how worried he was that Greg could hear the desperation in his voice. “Look after him?”

“I’ll go to his flat, but I doubt I’ll be able to stop him from using. It might be that the best I can do is make sure he’s okay afterwards.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

“Anytime, you know that. What about you?” 

“What about me?” Mycroft asked, sounding slightly more himself. 

“You liked Mary. You going to be okay?”

Mycroft huffed irritably. “Of course. We are in the middle of renovating the kitchen, as you know. I have no doubt that Gareth has plenty for me to be doing.”

“Right. I need to get going. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

The sound of the call disconnecting was all the answer Greg got and he put the phone down with a sigh. He opened the email app on his phone and sent a message to Donovan and his boss letting them know that he had a personal crisis and that he might not be in in the morning. He certainly had the leave accrued to take a couple of days off, and the need to be with Sherlock drove out the possibility of any guilt at leaving them in the lurch. 

The drive to Baker Street was made on autopilot, his mind distracted by a very graphic replay of Mary’s death, and images of Mary with John and little Rosie. He might not have liked or trusted the woman, but he wouldn't wish that kind of tragedy on any family. Sitting at a set of stubborn traffic lights, Greg’s thoughts turned to Sherlock; the other man made no secret of his adoration for the Watsons and had vowed to protect them. Greg could only imagine how he was reacting to Mary’s self-sacrifice, and none of the possible scenarios were good. The light finally changed and Greg sat impatiently behind the car in front, the driver of which apparently was not concentrating on the road. A quick blast from his horn had that rectified that and the traffic was soon moving again. 

After what felt like an age, he eventually pulled up around the corner from Sherlock’s flat. The night was cold, but Greg was barely aware of it, despite the way his breath fogged before him as he locked the car. He jogged around the corner and looked up as soon as Speedy’s came into the view. The first floor of 221b was in darkness, but that meant very little, for it was not uncommon for Sherlock to sit in the dark because he had not noticed night falling. 

He dug out his keys and quickly found the one for the outside door, letting himself in. The house was silent, except for the muffled hum of Mrs Hudson’s TV through her door. Apprehension squeezed tighter as he ascended the stairs, and he froze for a moment on reaching the top. The front door of the flat was slightly ajar. Greg pushed the door open, possible scenarios of what he was going to find flitting through his mind, none of them particularly pleasant. He stepped into the flat, closing the door behind him, eyes searching for Sherlock but not finding him. 

Greg was on the verge of calling out for him when the sound of the toilet flushing broke the silence. He crossed the room to stand at the end of the corridor leading to the bathroom in time to see Sherlock emerge, wiping his hand across his mouth. 

“My dear brother has been in touch, I assume,” he said by way of greeting, pushing past Greg on his way into the living room. 

“Yeah, he rang,” Greg replied, scanning Sherlock for any signs that he'd used. Nothing jumped out at him, and having seen Sherlock after using a variety of substances he was fairly sure that the other man was still clean. 

Sherlock stood at the window, back ramrod straight, staring out into the street. Leaving him to it, Greg turned on the main light and went into the kitchen. He switched the heating on, hoping that it wouldn't take long to warm the flat, and then emptied the kettle and filled it with fresh water, for one could never be sure that Sherlock had not contaminated it with some experiment. On opening the fridge, he found it empty save for a sheep’s head sitting on a serving platter. 

“It'll have to be black tea, Sherlock,” he called, closing the fridge turning back to the kettle. 

There was no answer, but Greg heard Sherlock moving in the other room, and turned to find the younger man standing at the far end of the kitchen table. 

“Why are you making tea?”

“Because I doubt you’ve drank anything for several hours, and it’s bloody cold in here.” 

Sherlock moved closer, face blank but for the pain clouding his eyes. “Why are you making tea _here_?”

“Because this is where you are,” Greg answered as the kettle hit boiling point and clicked off. He reached for the kettle, but Sherlock’s hand seized his wrist.

“I don't need your pity, or for you to keep an eye on me, or whatever inane task Mycroft has charged you with.”

Greg turned as much as he could with Sherlock gripping his wrist. “I’m making you tea, not pitying you.”

Sherlock huffed and let go. “I do not need looking after,” he said belligerently and spun away.

Greg turned back to the kitchen counter, quickly adding tea bags to the cups and pouring in water. 

When he got back into the living room, Greg found Sherlock in his chair with a clear bag filled with white powder sitting on the leather arm. Despite knowing where the other man had been, his stomach sank at the sight. “Here,” he said, holding one of the cups out to Sherlock. 

The younger man took the beverage but said nothing, eyes fixed on the wall and face blank. 

In his years of dealing with Sherlock, seeing him hurt, high, happy, angry, and every state in between hadn't prepared Greg for seeing Sherlock in this state. He looked lost and broken, and Greg hated it. 

The silence stretched on and Sherlock did not move, except for his chest expanding with his breaths. Greg took a sip of his own tea, surprised to find it cooling. “Drink that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked down at the hand holding his cup, seeming somewhat surprised at finding it there. He took a sip of the drink, features forming an expression of distaste. “It is a good job you make a better police officer than you do tea.”

Greg snorted. “Not my fault you’ve got no milk.”

Time passed slowly, and the silence of the flat was broken only by muted noises from the street below. At just gone midnight Greg made more tea, which Sherlock drank without protest. Other than the movements required to accept the cup and drink the beverage, the younger man did not move. Greg remained on the sofa, mind turning over what he knew, which was frustratingly little. Aside from what he'd seen, he knew basically nothing about what had occurred on the run up to today’s showdown, but the fact that Sherlock was at his flat with a packet of cocaine rather than with John and Rosie spoke volumes. A decade of acquaintance told Greg that pushing Sherlock for answers would do nothing but rile the other man, and offering words of comfort would be worse. The stillness of the flat lulled Greg into a light doze, but he jerked awake a short time later when Sherlock stood from his seat and went to the toilet. 

“Want another drink?” Greg asked when the other man re-entered the room. 

Wordlessly, Sherlock sat down and resumed staring at the wall. With nothing else to do, Greg went into the kitchen and started washing pots. For all that Sherlock was very fastidious in his personal hygiene, his flat was often an absolute pigsty. Pots done and counters clean, Greg checked the food cupboards, finding them as barren as the fridge, but thankfully devoid of animal parts.

The noise from the street gradually became louder and the sky lightened, signalling that a new day was beginning. Greg walked back into the living room and found Sherlock starting at him with tired eyes, but the older man knew better than to suggest he go to bed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and was unsurprised to find that it was a little gone seven thirty. 

“I’m going to go and get you some shopping. Anything particular you want?” 

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls swaying with the motion. The packet of cocaine was still on the arm of the chair, and Greg considered picking it up and taking it with him, but it would do little good if the other man was determined to use. “Well, text me if you think of anything.”

Outside, the crisp morning air was a relief after the tense atmosphere of the flat. The streets were filling up with people on their way to work, which was a reminder that he, too, was meant to be doing the same. Greg pulled out his phone and called his boss, quickly explaining that he wouldn’t be in because of a personal crisis but that Donovan was fully capable of dealing with the cases in his absence. He had just ended that call when another came in from an unknown number. 

“How is he?” Mycroft asked as soon as Greg had accepted the call and got the phone to his ear.

“Hurting but so far still clean. I’m just out to get him some shopping because he’s got nothing edible in except for a sheep’s head.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Can you tell me what caused this?” Greg asked, the need for answers becoming stronger now that the shock of the crisis had abated somewhat. 

“Has Sherlock not told you?”

Greg stopped outside of Tesco and leant against the wall. “No, and I’ve not asked.”

Mycroft sighed, and Greg could hear the exhaustion in it. “Mary had a dark past, and it caught up with her. Sherlock had been trying to shield her from it, but underestimated the lengths to which his opponent would go.”

Greg thought back on what he had witnessed the night before. “That woman, Norbury, was at the root of this?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m going to get him some shopping. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“Thank you, Greg. Oh, and he has always been partial to Rice Krispies.” 

Greg smiled despite himself as he pocketed his phone and entered the shop. The world’s only consulting detective, a human machine whose brain could solve the most intricate problems, and he liked Rice Krispies. 

***

On his return to Baker Street, Greg encountered Mrs Hudson coming down the stairs from Sherlock’s flat with an empty tray in one hand, and a crumpled tissue in the other. Her eyes were red and wet.

“Isn’t it awful?” she said nasally, wiping at her nose. 

“Yeah,” Greg replied, not really sure what to say, moving the shopping bags to his other hand. “Has John been in touch with you, then?”

“No, dear. Molly rang. She’s got Rosie for a couple of days and John's gone to his sister’s. I don’t know why he didn’t come here.” She sounded hurt that John was not returning to his former home.

“Did Sherlock say anything about it?”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “Not a bean. He just sat there in silence and then told me to go away. I should know better than to be offended after all these years, but—”

Greg sighed. “Don’t take it personally; you know what he’s like,” he said, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. 

Mrs Hudson sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “Well, I’d better get going. Molly needs some things for little Rosie.”

She bustled off into her flat, and Greg heard her sob before the door closed behind her. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of the now motherless baby and he determinedly swallowed it down. 

Back in Sherlock’s flat, Greg found the other man in the same position he had left him, but the packet of cocaine was missing. “Bloody cold out there,” he said, moving into the kitchen with the bags. “I got you semi-skimmed milk; hope that’s okay.” He opened the bread bin to put the loaf of Hovis away and found a tub of human fingers. “I assume you’re keeping these in a cool, dark place?” he called through to the living room. Silence met his question, so he put the fingers, which appeared to be of assorted skin tones, age, and condition, into the cupboard above the sink. 

Five minutes later, the shopping had been put away and Greg had made a round of jam on toast for himself and a bowl of Rice Krispies for Sherlock. “Here,” he said, holding the bowl out to the other man. 

Sherlock looked at the contents of the bowl and took it, cradling it against his chest. “What did you do with the fingers?”

“Cupboard above the sink,” Greg replied after swallowing his mouthful of toast. “What're you doing with them?”

To his surprise, Sherlock ate some of his cereal. “Analysing the rates of decomposition.”

“Interesting results?” Greg asked, but his question was met by silence, which stretched out as they ate. 

Eventually Greg stood from the sofa and moved to collect Sherlock’s bowl. As he approached the other man, he could see the packet of cocaine on the floor on the far side of the chair, and noted with relief that it still appeared to be unopened. He assumed that the younger man had dropped it down there to avoid Mrs Hudson’s sharp eyes.

As he stood at the sink washing the breakfast pots, Greg heard Sherlock enter the kitchen and looked over his shoulder to find him sitting at the table fiddling with his microscope. “You haven’t asked any questions. Aren’t you curious?”

Greg wiped his hands on a tea towel and leant back against the counter. “I saw enough to know that you’re hurting and angry. You’ll talk if you want to, but you’ve not told me to piss off yet so I’m guessing you don’t want to be alone.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the table top. “I made a vow to protect them.”

Greg felt his lips quirk into a weak smile at the memory of Sherlock’s best man speech. “Yeah, you did.”

“I made a vow to protect them, and I failed.”

“No, you didn’t,” Greg said and put a fresh cup of tea on the table in front of Sherlock. 

Sherlock lifted his head and looked Greg in the eye. He looked wrecked, and Greg felt a stab of pain at the sight. “How can you say that when you know that Mary is dead?”

“You made a vow, but she jumped in front of that bullet. That was her choice. Your vow and her choices are two separate things.”

“Of course they’re not! Had I not been showing off and dragged them into danger, none of this would have happened!” Sherlock shouted, standing from his chair and stomping off into the living room.

Greg would not normally push for information, but the fact that Sherlock had started the conversation was reassuring. He followed the younger man and found him standing in front of the window overlooking Baker Street. “How did this come about?”

A tense silence reigned for long moments. “I got to the bottom of the situation with the smashed Thatcher busts, as you know,” Sherlock replied eventually, addressing the window. “Because of that we discovered that Mary was in danger again; she and her former associates had been betrayed, and I took steps to protect her.” 

Sherlock moved from his place in front of the window and re-took his chair. Greg mirrored him, sitting in John’s chair. “Go on,” Greg encouraged when the other man fell silent.

“With Mycroft’s help I worked out who had betrayed them. I arranged to meet the traitor at the aquarium and invited John and Mary to join me, which they did. You saw the rest.”

Though Sherlock’s face was blank as he spoke, Greg could hear the emotion in his voice. “Right,” Greg said, not sure what Sherlock would want to hear. After his mum had died, Greg had grown sick of hearing well-meaning platitudes, and suspected that Sherlock would have even less use for them than he had. 

“Now you see how I broke my vow.”

Greg shook his head. “No, I don’t. Norbury shot at you. Mary chose to save you from it; your vow had nothing to do with that.”

Sherlock leapt out of his chair and paced the space in front of the fire furiously. “This is my fault! If I had not been showing off—”

“Bollocks,” Greg interrupted, standing from his chair and crossing to where Sherlock was standing, grasping the younger man by the arms. “You’re a drama queen: we all know that. John and Mary knew what was involved in this, and Mary certainly knew that turncoats can turn nasty. They both showed up, without Rosie, so they obviously anticipated the danger.”

Sherlock wrenched himself out of Greg’s hold. “Mary is still dead. Rosie has lost her mother. John is angry with me.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Greg snapped, sitting back down heavily. “He just saw his wife killed protecting you; he’s going to be furious with everyone and everything right now, and you make an easy target. That doesn’t make this your fault, or mean that you broke your vow.” 

Sherlock huffed and collapsed into his seat, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, descending into silence. 

Time passed slowly and Greg was at a loss as to what to do. Months back, he would have pulled Sherlock into his arms, maybe stroked his hair, but he wasn't sure how that would go down. Eventually he pulled his phone out and opened a blank text. 

**To: John Watson** Here if you need anything. 

He sent the message, knowing that it was trite and that John likely had an inbox full of them, but there was little else he could say. The atmosphere grew tenser as the minutes passed, and Greg could see the emotions playing out across Sherlock’s face. 

His phone vibrating caught his attention and Greg was grateful for something else to look at. 

**John Watson:** Thanks 

The rest of the day passed in silence, with Greg flicking through several of the books on Sherlock’s bookcases and channel hopping to pass the time. By the time Sherlock spoke again, Greg was in the kitchen preparing spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. 

“Why did she do it?” he asked brokenly, startling Greg who had not heard the other man enter the kitchen. 

He turned around, spatula in hand, and found the other man slumped on a dining chair looking like a stiff breeze would knock him over. 

“Because she cared about you and didn’t want you to die,” Greg answered. “Same as the reasons for you faking your death to protect the people you care about.” Though it had been years since that happened, Greg still felt privileged and humbled that he had been one of the people Sherlock had been protecting. 

Sherlock frowned, studying his hands with the intensity usually reserved for particularly tricky cases. 

Greg turned back to the cooker and stirred the pasta, which appeared to be about ready. “Get some plates out,” he told Sherlock, as he drained the pasta. 

The younger man got up and opened the crockery cupboard, withdrawing two plates.

He put them down on the counter top beside Greg, and when he looked down he was surprised to see the packet of cocaine atop them. “Want me to get rid of that?” he asked casually. 

“Yes.”

Greg made quick work of opening the bag and tipping the contents into the sink before Sherlock could change his mind. He watched the water wash the white powder away, the relief immense. He doubted that this would be the last time the younger man would be tempted by the oblivion offered by drugs, but that he had weathered the urge successfully at such a difficult time spoke volumes about his strength. 

He disposed of the bag and turned back to the dinner, doling out two portions and setting them down on the table. 

“I didn’t know you can cook,” Sherlock said, poking dubiously at the mince with his fork. 

“Course I can,” Greg replied blowing on a forkful of meat. “I haven’t got a landlady who brings me tea and biscuits every morning.”

“You do know that blowing on it makes no difference to the temperature, don’t you?” Sherlock asked haughtily, sounding something like himself. 

“Habit,” Greg replied, blowing again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes eloquently. 

***

Greg woke early the next morning and levered himself off the sofa, wincing at the pain in his back. “Too old for sleeping on sofas, Greg,” he muttered to himself.

Sherlock had fallen into a fitful sleep in his chair not long after dinner, and Greg had quickly followed suit, but he had at least made is as far as the sofa. He felt grimy, having not showered or changed his clothes since the night at the aquarium.

“We both stink,” the younger man said bluntly, voice rough with sleep, startling Greg who hadn’t realised that he was awake. 

“Yeah, I noticed that too,” Greg replied, stretching his arms up above his head. “I’m going to go to work today.”

Sherlock nodded, his slightly greasy hair swaying with the movement. “I’m going to contact John. And see if I have any new cases.” 

“Work’s a good way to deal with sorrow,” Greg replied, bending down to put his shoes back on. “I need to get off home to shower and change before work. Text me if you need anything, yeah?”

Sherlock stood from his chair and moved towards the bathroom. Taking that as a dismissal, Greg pulled on his coat, checking that his car keys and warrant card were still in the pocket, and made to leave. He opened the door and was on the verge of stepping through when Sherlock spoke. “Thank you, Greg,” he said, closing the bathroom door behind him with a snap.

***

Four days later, Greg arrived home to find the lights on and the smell of cooking coming from the kitchen. As he hung his coat on its usual hook beside the door, he saw Sherlock’s long black coat on the hook beside it. Aside from texts demanding cases, he hadn't heard from the younger man since leaving him, and had been hesitant to force his company on him again.

He crossed his slightly messy living room into the kitchen, and was amused to find Sherlock bent over the cooker with the novelty naked man apron tied around his waist.

“Your cooker is appalling, Lestrade,” he said haughtily by way of greeting. 

“Came with the flat,” Greg replied, getting a beer out of the fridge. “You want one?”

“Yes, as long as it is not that Corona you had last time I was here.” 

Greg felt a flutter in his tummy at the thought of how they had spent the night last time Sherlock had been in his flat. He cleared his throat, chastising himself for having such thoughts when Sherlock was grieving for a close friend, and deposited the bottle on the counter beside the other man. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, leaning against the fridge. 

“You cooked me dinner when I needed it. You havn't been home since yesterday, and have likely been living on Tesco meal deals and cheap coffee, so I decided to return the favour.” Sherlock turned to face him, spatula in hand, looking utterly ridiculous in the apron. “Don't say it, Lestrade,” he said sternly, but Greg could see that he was amused. “You own this ridiculous apron, not me.”

“Gift from my sister, so not my fault. What’re you cooking?” he asked, moving away from the fridge to peer into the pan. 

“Boeuf bourguignon.”

“Smells good.”

Sherlock huffed and turned back to his cooking, the detritus of which was scattered across the work surfaces of Greg’s small kitchen. “Of course it does. When have you ever known me to be less than excellent at anything?”

The younger man sounded so much like himself that Greg could not help but smile. “What have you been doing?”

“Working,” Sherlock replied, dipping a teaspoon into the pan to taste the sauce. “This is ready.”

Greg pulled bowls out of the cupboard and laid them next to Sherlock before digging spoons and forks out of his cluttered cutlery drawer and laying them on the table.

In short order they were seated at Greg’s small kitchen table with steaming bowls in front of them. Greg felt Sherlock’s eye roll when he blew on his spoonful of casserole. The flavours exploded in his mouth and Greg closed his eyes in pleasure. “This is really, really good,” he said once he had swallowed his mouthful, waving his spoon in the direction of the bowl.

“I’m a postgraduate chemist; cooking is simple chemistry,” Sherlock replied, though Greg could see that he was pleased by the praise. 

They ate in silence for long minutes. “John told me to fuck off again today,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence. 

Greg could hear the pain in Sherlock’s voice. “He’s grieving. It’s going to take time before he’s ready to see you again.”

Sherlock stared at the table, spoon hovering over his bowl. “He won't let me see Rosie.”

Greg aborted the move to squeeze the other man’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It's not your fault.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright with pain and it hurt Greg to see it.

“No, I didn’t, but I care about you and you’re hurting.”

Sherlock stirred his dinner for a moment, apparently fascinated by the movement of the sauce. 

Greg deposited his own spoon in his empty bowl and leaned back in his chair. “That was gorgeous, thank you. Any time you fancy breaking in to cook me dinner, feel free to have at it.”

A feeble smile twitched Sherlock’s lips. “I refuse to wash the pots, though,” he said as he stood, untying the apron. “This thing really is awful.”

“At least that got splashed and not your fancy shirt,” Greg replied, eyeing the marks on the middle of the apron. 

“Being useful and awful aren't mutually exclusive,” the other man replied tartly and picked up his beer, moving off into the living room. 

Greg cleared the table, dumping the bowls and cutlery in the sink to be dealt with later, and followed.

“What's this?” Sherlock asked a few minutes later, pointing at the TV. 

“Pointless,” Greg replied, settling on the sofa beside him, beer in hand. 

“I know that, but what _is_ it?”

Greg laughed. “No, bright spark, the program is called Pointless. The aim is to find answers that no one else has given. Lowest overall score wins.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, attention still on the TV where Alexander Armstrong was bantering with a red-headed contestant. 

The contestants were half way through the round when Greg felt Sherlock shift beside him, and the other man’s warm hand landed on his thigh. “Sherlock,” he said warily, remaining still. 

“Greg,” the other man said, lips brushing his ear. 

“What—”

“I should think that is obvious,” Sherlock replied huskily, moving his hand further up Greg’s thigh. 

Despite his apprehension, Greg felt a flutter of interest in his gut and his heartbeat sped up. “You’ve not wanted this for months.”

Sherlock moved his nose gently down Greg’s neck. “Wrong.”

Against his better judgement, Greg stroked the top of Sherlock’s hand with his fingertips, as possible explanations for Sherlock’s renewed carnal interest raced through his mind. The most likely one, Greg quickly decided, was that he was feeling lonely and hurt and needed a physical distraction. It had been a long time, weeks before the Magnussen fiasco, since Sherlock had wanted anything but cases from him. 

“Wrong again,” Sherlock said against his neck, apparently having read Greg’s mind. “I never lost my interest in having sex with you, but was disturbed by the emotions that started to attach themselves to the act. I was also aware that there was a chance I would be murdering Magnussen and anticipated that Mycroft may be forced to send me out of the country. Better to end it before that happened, really.”

“Right,” Greg replied, voice rough with emotion. 

Sherlock’s hand crept higher up Greg’s leg, and his heart rate seemed to increase with its proximity to his crotch. “You sure about this?” he asked. “It’s been a difficult week—”

Sherlock silenced him with a kiss, pressing close. Greg worked his left hand into Sherlock’s hair, scraping at his scalp lightly, causing the younger man to sigh against his lips. 

The kiss continued until Greg breathlessly pulled away, trying valiantly to put some space between them. “Are you sure you want this? I don’t want to take advantage of you, and I don’t particularly want to get hurt again myself.”

Sherlock dropped his forehead onto Greg’s shoulder and spoke into the fabric of his shirt. “I had decided to approach you about this arrangement the day you turned that woman down, but events spiralled out of control. You would not be taking advantage of me. I enjoy sex with you, and after the events of this week would like to spend the night with you.”

Greg crooked two fingers beneath Sherlock’s chin and lifted his face. “Fine, but we are talking about this later. I’m too old to be a fuck toy for you, Sherlock.”

The kiss that Sherlock used to silence Greg sent ripples of sensation to his very core, and before he was quite sure what had happened he had a lap full of consulting detective.


End file.
